


Change is as good as a holiday

by cher



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Demonic Possession, Discreet Gentlemen's Club (Good Omens), Flash Fic, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-24 01:53:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19713904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cher/pseuds/cher
Summary: What's a suddenly bodiless demon to do when pulled out of an extended nap, but possess the inconsiderate summoner?Shortly thereafter, an intriguing stranger walks into Aziraphale's Gentleman's Club.





	Change is as good as a holiday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [infernal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/infernal/gifts).



The various occult books in the world, whether a load of gibberish dressed up in fancy-looking sigils, or the dangerously accurate kind, had one thing in common: the assumption that supernatural beings had nothing better to do than stand around waiting to be summoned. 

Every couple of hundred years, someone dug up the right book and had the (literal) bloody-mindedness to actually manage a demon summoning. Since Crowley was almost always the unlucky bastard who was closest by, there he was in some wanker's circle again. Never mind what he'd been in the middle of or how blessed long it was going to take him to get back to it. They were a bunch of pillocks, practitioners, and they always had been.

It did make it rather satisfying to show them, by way of stepping straight out of their circles and getting right up in their faces, that a demon in a (mostly) flesh and blood body wasn't obliged to follow their playbook. 

Usually, he scared them silly with a bit of the old giant snake face, and left them to their own, suddenly non-occult, devices. If they'd particularly annoyed him, they developed an inexplicable problem with banks refusing to honour their personal cheques, and sudden and thorough investigations by the relevant tax authority. Kept them from having enough time to annoy him again. 

That was how this song and dance usually went, anyway. This time was a spot more inconvenient, and the difference was that Crowley had never before been summoned while he was asleep. Disturbingly, it seemed that his demonic essence was not as well attached to his body as one would hope. 

(If he complained to Hell, he suspected he'd be pointed to a subclause in his Corporation Agreement that voided the warranty when used outside of operating parameters. Sleeping was definitely not part of the expected use cases for demonic corporations. He only had himself to blame for sending them the inspiration for the blessed contracts in the first place.) 

So here he was, straight from his warm bed and a very agreeable dream about Aziraphale in the Roman days, stuck bodiless in the latest pillock's circle. 

Crowley hoped his body was doing okay without him. Meanwhile, he'd be needing another, and he wasn't going to Hell on account of this idiot. There was only the one thing for it, and it wasn't on his list of things to do for fun.

Still, beggars can't be choosers and all that. When the pillock came into the circle to investigate the gently smoking sigil and the apparently demonless circle, Crowley swooped. Metaphorically. Possibly literally. Either way, he entered the summoner's body and went about the tedious process of settling in. 

At the very least, the pillock whose body Crowley was now wearing wasn't bad looking. Terrible clothes, of course, but then it was always possible that Crowley's nap—not a sulk, no matter what the angel was going to say—had run a decade or so long. Maybe he'd slept through a change in the fashion. That had happened once or twice. 

He aimed a metaphorical kick at the corner of the body that the summoner's soul cowered in, annoyed all over again. He was going to have to go and find the angel to help him sort this out, and Aziraphale was probably still in a snit over the holy water thing. Just great. 

_

That morning, Aziraphale was chatting with Edwin and his young man over a passable round of scones and cream, and paying just a little bit more attention to the excellent strawberry preserve than to his companions. He was very glad to have his friends at the Club, and they kept him from feeling lonely in between his few assignments, but he did miss having a good, long conversation with a really stimulating partner. It had been a long time. He did hope that Crowley would emerge from his sulk soon. He was starting to miss him. 

There was a commotion at the door. Aziraphale looked over to see Frankie introducing a newcomer around, a rare enough occurrence that conversation would be about very little else for the next week. He looked away, blinked, and looked at the man again. 

There was something very strange about him. Something about the way he moved sent a pleased shiver right up Aziraphale's spine, which was fitting, because the gentleman walked as if he didn't have one himself. It was uncanny, and actually—well, if he had to put a name to the feeling he was having, he would have to say he found the stranger attractive. 

Well. That was an unusual thing for him to feel, and from all the way across the room! Aziraphale watched the man surreptitiously, because he couldn't have any of his friends catching him staring. He'd never hear the end of it. They gossiped worse than any group of humans he'd ever known, which was, admittedly, why he liked them so much. 

The newcomer had dark hair, a long face, and wide dark eyes. He wasn't at all the kind of gentleman Aziraphale usually thought twice about, except as a gavotte partner. And yet there was something almost magnetic about him. 

He followed Frankie around the room, and Aziraphale followed him with his eyes. The way he stood, all insolent lean. The way he tilted his face to listen to Oliver, eyes wide and intent. His air of amused superiority. The way he curled his voice around his words, as if every word was an invitation. 

Edwin nudged his young man. "Would you look at that. Our Mr. Fell has had his head turned at last." 

Frankie led the new man toward their corner at last, and Aziraphale found that his mouth had gone a little dry. He quite forgot himself, and his empty tea cup was miraculously full again when he reached for it. He failed to notice Edwin frown in confusion. 

Aziraphale got to his feet and found that he was holding his breath. "Anthony, this here is our dear Mr. Fell, such a fine dancer. Edwin and young Richard, both very accomplished with a tennis racquet if that's your pleasure. Mr. Fell, Edwin, Richard, please meet Anthony, who is new to our Club." Frankie winked broadly. Oh, dear. 

"Hello, gentlemen," Anthony said, and the timbre sounded wrong somehow, but the stresses on the words were so familiar. Aziraphale's heart jumped. He wanted—something. 

"Angel," the man drawled, and Aziraphale's whole body jumped, "Could I have a word?"

"Of course," he breathed, and didn't register the hoots and whistles at all as he followed Crowley to one of the side rooms. 

"A fine dancer, are you," the demon murmured as he closed the door. 

Aziraphale, unaccountably, blushed. He hadn't even known he could do that. Well. Whatever had happened to Crowley's body, they'd put it right. And then perhaps he could find out if he'd been failing to notice a few things about the way he thought of Crowley. 


End file.
